The Magic Circle

by Katherine Neville

  Of course, it has long occurred to me there must have been a valid explanation why you were not asked to what the Master surely knew would be his last supper among his disciples. After all, it was known to everyone you were the chosen disciple—“alpha and omega” he often called you, didn’t he? Then too, after his death you were the first witness of his ascent to the bosom of God. But the decisive factor, as I see it, Miriam, is that well before the supper you were already initiated into the Mysteries!

  Undoubtedly, you’ve received many reports of those events from others who were present. But their reports may have been colored by their own participation, thus missing the crucial point. Indeed, it is possible that the whole meal and the events surrounding it were designed by the Master as a kind of test of the other disciples, as my son once speculated, to see which among them might turn out to be wheat or chaff: that is, which would—at the end of that evening and of the Master’s life—prove worthy of the transformation he’d always offered those who passed such tests. I have written this story as if I were an outside observer. I ask you alone to be the judge.

  THE LAST MEAL

  Some days before the Passover, for reasons unknown to any but himself, the Master told his disciples by what means they must enter the city that night, to locate the site of their supper: to wait by the Serpent Pond near the Essene Gate south of town. There, a man bearing a water pitcher would come and lead them, one by one, to the appointed spot. By this device, the Master ensured that only the twelve would be present at the meal. By arriving last himself, therefore, the Master was thirteenth.

  There was controversy over the secrecy, this unorthodox approach to planning a ritual meal whose rules, after all, had been handed down more than a thousand years ago, directly from God to Moses. How could they know, for instance, that the meal would be prepared according to Torah, using proper rules of cleanliness and cooking technique? And according also to the Mishnah, the leaven must be searched for by candlelight, and cast out, the night before—who would see to that? The Master ignored these complaints. He shrugged and simply said all was arranged.

  It was a surprise that the water-bearer was young John Mark, the ten-year-old son of Maryam Mark, who along with her brother Barnabas from Cyprus was among the Master’s wealthiest patrons. Her palatial residence on the western side of Mount Zion had for years been Simon Peter’s second home when not in Galilee, and the Master’s “fireside chats” there with his disciples, lavishly catered by her staff of servants, were often known to go into the wee hours of the night.

  But on this occasion, a surprise was in store. When each disciple was greeted at the gates by Rosa, Maryam Mark’s housekeeper, he was escorted by another servant, not to the dining hall, but up several flights of stairs to an unknown room beneath the very rafters of the house. Furthermore, this room was outfitted with costly furnishings the like of which none had seen before in a private home: low marble tables, exotically inlaid with colored stones that glittered in the yellow light of Persian hanging lamps; thick carpets from the Ionian coast and multicolored tapestries redolent of the African north coast; huge samovars of tea and giant urns brimming with foamy wine, set everywhere around the room.

  Although many of the twelve were successful professionals—tax collectors like Matthew, or well-to-do proprietors of fishing fleets, like Simon and Andrew and the Zebedees—still they were taken aback by this extravagant splendor, which seemed to approach a nearly Roman level of decadence. They stood awkwardly, gazing around Maryam Mark’s upper room at the Roman couches where three together could recline while dining, too awed to help themselves to any wine or to converse much until at last the Master arrived.

  He seemed somehow preoccupied, and motioned for the others to be seated. He didn’t sit at once himself, but paced back and forth beside the door as if waiting for something to happen. The servants brought bowls of water and towels. When they’d departed and the door was shut behind them, the Master, without speaking, took up a bowl and towel and set them on a nearby table. Then removing all his clothes, he wrapped the towel around his waist, knelt on the floor before Judas, and began to wash his feet. The others were embarrassed and more than a little shocked. More so, when they saw he intended to do the same to each. One by one, he came before them to wash their feet, wiping them dry with the towel as they looked on uneasily. But when the Master reached Simon Peter, the disciple jumped to his feet in refusal, crying,

  “Never, never! You shall not wash my feet! Not mine!”

  “Then it seems we have nothing in common,” the Master told him quietly. He was not smiling. “If you all believe I’m your Master, you should follow my example. I hope you’ll do the same when I’m no longer here to show you what love is. It’s an arrogant servant, Peter, who can learn nothing and thinks himself greater than the one who sent him. When I’m gone, I hope my followers will be recognized by the fact that they serve one another and love mankind.”

  “Then wash me, Master!” Peter cried enthusiastically, sitting again in haste. “Not just my feet—wash my hands, too, and my head—”

  The Master burst out laughing. “Only what’s dirty,” he said. And glancing at Judas with an enigmatic smile, he added, “Most of what I see here is clean—but not all.” A comment that later was interpreted by many as a reference to the “dirty” money Judas had accepted, in exchange for betraying him.

  When the Master put his linen robe on again, he reclined on the couch between Simon Peter and young Johan Zebedee, whom he’d affectionately dubbed parthenos, the virgin girl, for his childlike if often unruly innocence. The Master spoke throughout nearly the entire meal, with a flushed intensity, eating little save some sips of the ritual wine and a few tastes of the traditional symbolic foods.

  As to what he was speaking about, it appeared his principal interest was to recite—as age-old tradition dictated—the history of the Passover and the exodus of our people from Egypt. But despite the Master’s keen interest in rabbinical law, it did seem to those present that he placed unusual emphasis on the food and drink connected with this ritual meal, and even more upon those things forbidden by God—especially the leaven. Here is what the Master said:

  THE LEAVEN

  These are the things wherewith a man fulfills his obligation on Passover: barley, wheat, spelt, rye, and oats—Pesachim 2; Mishnah 5

  In ancient times the two holy days we call Pesach and Massot—the Passover and the feast of unleavened bread—were separate events, unlike today. The feast of unleavened bread was the more ancient tradition, dating to the time of Abraham and Noah, and was only later made a part of the Passover ritual that commemorates the escape of our people from bondage in Egypt.

  The first Pesach meal was eaten in haste as our people prepared for flight. On their lintels were painted tau symbols in lamb’s blood, as instructed, so when the Lord passed over, Egyptian firstborn males would be struck down instead of our own. Also as instructed, during the period before the flight, no leaven was permitted.

  The law pertains to five specific grains: barley, wheat, spelt, rye, and oats. The flower of each, if in contact with water for more than a brief time, becomes leaven. God told Moses and Aaron the people must not “eat leaven, touch leaven, profit by leaven, neither shall they keep leaven in their house,” during seven whole days, from the fourteenth of the month of Nisan through the night of the twenty-first when they left Egypt. Anyone who disobeyed, God promised to cut off from Israel, forever.

  Why was this strange commandment so important? And since the feast of unleavened bread is older than Moses’ departure from Egypt, the ritual of searching for leaven is more ancient than the Hebrew people’s recognition of the one true God. What does it mean?

  The number of grains we classify as leaven—five—was important to the Greeks, who called the number five the quintessence: the fifth essence, the highest level of reality, to which all others aspire. The five-pointed star—the pentacle, with a pentagon at its heart—was the symbol of Pythagora
s, and also of King Solomon. It stands for wisdom, reflected in the apple, a natural form that conceals this symbol in its core. And within that symbol—the true Solomon’s seal—is the secret of the eternal flame.

  The process of leavening raises something to a higher level and transforms it. We can see that during the first Passover, God forbade earthly leaven for Jews in favor of transformation to a higher state, making us able to attain that celestial bread which Pythagoras called the Eternal Leaven, a food we also know as manna, wisdom, sapienta, the Word of God. It is associated with a mysterious, invisible element called “ether” that the ancients conceived as binding the universe together: the axis.

  Miriam, I may tell you, when the Master finished this story, no one in the upper chamber of my home made a sound. The Master gazed slowly around the circle of his disciples, and in that absolute silence he posed an unexpected question.

  “Does anyone know the true identity of ‘the Shulamite’?” He added, “I speak of King Solomon’s darkly beautiful and mysterious love in the Song of Songs. Shulamite means Salem-ite, for she was a city-dweller, and Salem was an early name of Jerusalem. When Solomon asked God for her hand in marriage, perhaps she was more ancient than the city itself. So who was she, really?”

  After a moment’s awkward silence, Simon Peter responded for the others.

  “But, Master,” he objected, “for a thousand years since the time of Solomon, rabbis and priests have debated the matter of that famous woman who was neither queen nor official royal concubine, but only a lowly keeper of vineyards. Yet the efforts of those wise men met with no success. How can we, here in this room, untutored as we are in all the scholarly aspects of Torah, be expected to fare any better?”

  The Master’s answer, though delivered in the same soft tone, struck Peter so bluntly that he nearly recoiled.

  “Miriam of Magdali would know the answer.” Then the Master smiled. “It is a knotty problem. But perhaps you’ll recall that the night before Solomon began construction on the temple, God appeared in a dream and told him to ask anything he wished. The young king replied that his only desire was the Shulamite’s hand in marriage—”

  “Forgive me, Master,” young Johan Zebedee cut in. “I’m afraid that isn’t so. As everyone knows, Solomon’s first wife was Pharaoh’s daughter. Furthermore, Solomon only asked one thing of God that night—not marriage, but wisdom.”

  “Exactly,” agreed the Master, still smiling. “And though Solomon had many wives, the one that remained first in his heart, as you’ve correctly said, was the dark, mysterious beauty with whom he celebrates his betrothal in the Song of Songs. To what better bride could a king wish to be yoked, throughout his days, than Wisdom? In the Song of Songs, she herself tells us her symbol is that five-pointed star that Solomon later accepts as his own seal:

  “‘Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death.… the coals thereof are coals of fire.’

  “This is the secret flame, the eternal leaven,” the Master said. “For the Greeks, the morning star was Artemis or Athena, virgins noted for their wisdom. The evening star was Aphrodite, goddess of love. Since we know these two stars are one, it reveals that in earliest days, men held the key to the highest mystery: the knowledge that wisdom and love are one, a knowledge permitting us to transcend even death.”

  Those in the room remained in stunned silence as the Master casually tousled the hair of the young, and very confused-looking, Johan Zebedee, who was reclining near him on the sofa. Then he motioned for my son to pour him more wine.

  “Master, forgive me,” said Philip of Bethsaida. “Your words seem to touch on past, present, and future events, so I’m never quite sure how to interpret what you say. But when you speak of love, surely you mean that our love of the Divine, if properly understood and nourished, might enable us to transcend even death? And yet, one must agree that the Song of Solomon, like the historical king himself, would suggest a very different, sensual, one might almost say a carnal picture of love—a portrayal that seems scarcely to suit the image of the coming kingdom which you, yourself, have foretold.”

  “Indeed, Philip,” said the Master. “And that is precisely where the mystery lies.”

  Mona Island, Britannia: Autumn, A.D. 44

  To: Miriam of Magdali

  at Lugdunum, Gaul

  From: Joseph of Arimathea

  at Mona, Sea of Eire, Britannia

  Dearest Miriam,

  As you see, your last parcel found me, though it took some time to arrive here. Due to last year’s “conquest” of southern Britannia by the emperor Claudius, I’ve temporarily relocated our base of activities here to the north, a druidical stronghold where we’ve received much support. Though I was never physically in danger—the Roman landing was a bloodless takeover, no battles were fought, there were no casualties, and the Romans were in and out in a few months’ time, leaving only a few legions behind to start construction—still I feared for the safety of those things I possess, which as you know are of some value. This leads naturally to the topic of your letter.

  With regard to your offer—much as I yearn to see you in person, I don’t think it a good time for you to travel here just now from Gaul. I’ll explain in more detail below. But first I must convey my great appreciation for the new information you’ve provided, which I’ve taken much care in reviewing.

  More and more, as our original numbers are decimated by the Romans or their puppets—James Zebedee’s brutal execution last spring at the hands of Herod Agrippa, or Simon Peter’s imprisonment, followed by his self-imposed exile to the north—I have come to see how very important it is for us to piece together a much fuller vision of what the Master was trying to accomplish in that fateful last week of his life.

  Further, with all his warnings of false prophets, it seems clear Jesua must have foreseen someone like this Saul of Tarsus of whom John Mark speaks in his letter, who might arrive on the scene after his death and try to alter his entire message in such fashion. So I’ve tried to combine this new account you’ve sent of the Master’s last supper with his disciples with the information we’d previously collected. And I agree that we can see far more clearly now just where his message was heading.

  First, the Master’s presentation of himself as the divine servant whose chief task is to ritually cleanse the temple and all who are about to enter it. Submission. And then the comparison of his body and blood with bread and wine—an Isaac-like gesture, as if he were offering himself as both matter and spirit in lieu of the ritual offering usual on such occasions. Self-sacrifice.

  If only his arrest had not come so soon, that night in my garden, and he’d been able to complete his initiation of young Johan Zebedee as he’d intended. (Though I can well see why Johan resents you so today, since you are now the only disciple who ever received the full initiation directly at the Master’s own hands.)

  Finally, you must have guessed, as I did, from Maryam Mark’s letter that if the Master planned every detail of the meal, it was likely no more than he did with the other events of that week. Perhaps his stress on the appointments of her upper chamber was designed to conceal the significance to him of a few specific objects—for example the chalice he drank from at her home, which you’ve told me she later entrusted to you at his request.

  It occurs to me now that he seems privately to have arranged for each of us individually to take one of the objects that he touched—or that touched him—in his last hours on earth, and to keep it in a special place until his return. For instance, the garment he wore that Nicodemus preserved after we washed the body. Or the spear-tip that pierced his side, which I was instructed to remove from the haft of that Roman centurion’s javelin and to preserve, as I have to this day. I believe these objects may possess some sacred power—and may be far older than we imagine.

  But quite a few have been entrusted to me by others, as you know, for Britannia was one of the few outposts that has remained independent of Roman
occupation or influence—that is, until now. It’s this alone, Miriam, that makes me fear for you to come here with the chalice. I believe the time has come for me to share some information with you that you ought to know, should anything happen to me.

  Perhaps you recall, twelve years ago, just before the Master’s death, the trip I’d just returned from? At the request of the Sanhedrin, I’d been on a special mission to Capri where I had successfully petitioned the emperor Tiberius for the return of exiled Jews to Rome. What perhaps you were not aware of is that my escort to Capri on that occasion, and my advocate in that plea, was none other than the man who has just invaded Britain: Claudius.

  Furthermore, as our newly minted emperor is likely aware, that interview with his uncle Tiberius was not to be my last. Indeed, I was with Tiberius on the isles of Paxi not a week before his death. And if Claudius has learned what we were doing there, we must wonder whether he had more than one motive in this recent expedition to Britain. He has left behind three legions, now busily engaged in building roads and setting up townships in preparation for the long occupation of Britannia he clearly foresees. They’ve used native forced labor to build a temple at Camulodunum.

  The emperor Claudius may have failed to find what he sought here. But it seems he plans a more extended visit in future.

  Rome: Spring, A.D. 56

  CONFLAGRATIO

  While I yet live, may fire consume the earth. —Nero

  As his slaves untied the curling ribbons and unwound his long blond hair, curl by curl, it tumbled in a tempestuous mass over the emperor Nero’s bare shoulders. He sat naked before the full-length glass, analyzing himself with cold blue eyes.